Completely Contrived OneShot 14: Proximity
by Loafer
Summary: Another LASSIET one-shot, another bit of utterly contrived nonsense which demanded to be written and posted here. Who cares what the plot is; you'll figure it out.


**Disclaimer: "** You can't water-ski in the state of Tennessee on November 17th. You can if you please but you'll freeze from the breeze and your nose'll turn pink." (Bobby Russell)

 **Rating** : T for thingamabob.  
 **Summary:** Pretty sure this is contrived enough to fit into my ongoing series of one-shots. No Marlowe, no Shules.

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 **. . . .**

She looked small and cold and sad and his chest ached for her.

Hard case. Hard, hard case.

One of those which wouldn't be shaken off and replaced with the distractions of the next one.

Carlton went to where she sat on the low stone wall. "Partner."

Juliet sighed. "Yeah."

"It's okay." He didn't have to say that to her often.

She glanced up at him, and he saw the misty sheen to her eyes. "I know. I'm good."

"Liar."

She sighed again. "Yeah."

"Hug?" he asked, surprising himself.

Within one second, she had launched herself into his arms, and he wrapped around her as tightly as he could.

Juliet O'Hara needed to seem strong; he knew that about her—she felt she _had_ to be strong all the time so people wouldn't mistake her for some faint-hearted femme instead of the capable, competent cop she was.

But when she was cracking, he knew that too, and if simply holding her would help, out here behind this dank little house where the murder was committed—and solved—then he'd hold her as long as she needed.

He tried not to think of the morning on the clock tower years ago.

But it was like that: she didn't cry this time, but she snuffled a bit and clung to him and he rubbed her back and inhaled her scent and just let her be.

In these rare moments, she was his. He knew—he _knew_ —she wouldn't show this side of herself to anyone else in the department. Maybe Karen Vick under the right circumstances. But not anyone else. A bit of pride suffused him at her trust.

Juliet was settling down, her grip on him less anxious now. Relaxing. Sighing. So warm against him.

He eased his hold on her, but let her choose when to step back.

It took longer than he thought, and he didn't mind. She looked up at him, dark blue eyes still misty. Patting his chest, she gave him a small smile and said very softly, "No one hugs me like you do."

But then she turned before he could speak, and started back toward the house and reality.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

A week later, late on a rainy morning, they sat in the conference room puzzling over financial records from an embezzlement case.

Juliet got up to bring in fresh coffee, and closed the door behind her when she returned. "Break," she said in a firm tone.

Carlton leaned back in his chair, stretching. Juliet smiled and sat at the end of the table instead of across from him, which put her closer.

"How's your apartment hunt going?" she asked.

"Sucks."

He'd been looking for a while now. The apartment manager for his current residence had proved to be a whackaloon of the highest magnitude, and in a fit of by-God-don't-you- _make_ -me-draw-my-weapon rage Carlton had given notice. Now there were just a few weeks left before he had to move, and he hadn't had much time to properly suss out a place which was convenient to the station, free of overt signs of bugs or mold or nosy neighbors, within his budget and not… pathetic.

Carlton hadn't expressed _that_ to her out loud, but he was ready for a brighter place, a place he could call a _home_ and not just where he kept his stuff and slept because he wasn't allowed to sleep at the station and was… yeah… pathetic.

"Sorry it's been so hard." She sipped coffee, and her expression grew pensive.

"What are you thinking?" he inquired.

Juliet smiled again.

 _Always a nice sight._

She got up and took her coffee to the window, gazing out at the light rainfall.

"I've noticed," she began, "over the last few months, that something's different at home."

Carlton spun slowly in his chair to have a better look at her. He was tired of the financial papers anyway and it had been a _very_ long week.

"You and I, we spend so much time together."

It didn't _sound_ like a complaint, but he still said, "Sorry?"

Juliet cast him a frown. "Stop that. I like it. I like knowing you're always close by. Whether it's across the table or across the aisle or with me in the car, or just down the hall snapping at someone. I feel…" she hesitated, and looked out the window again. "I feel like everything's right when you're around."

He almost forgot to breathe for a second. It was the nicest thing anyone had _ever_ said to him.

"Uh… thanks. That's… good to hear." He cleared his throat, unaccountably embarrassed and positive he was bright red.

Juliet kept her gaze on the outside world, still sipping her coffee. "But at home, for quite a long time now, I've had this sensation… I don't know how to put it. I hear a noise and I expect you to come out of the kitchen, or around the corner from the dining room. 'Oh, that's Carlton in the hall, or coming in from the deck,'" she added, and then did glance at him momentarily, that little smile back. "It's nice. But you're not really there."

Carlton wasn't sure what she was saying. She was hearing things? Someone was skulking around her place? Someone he'd have to hunt down and pistol-whip? Or…

Juliet returned to the table, sitting down and clasping her mug with both hands, looking into the still-faintly-steaming brew. "I find that I'm expecting you to be there."

"Habit," he suggested. She didn't look up. "Maybe you need a vacation. We've logged a lot of hours recently."

"I find that I'm expecting you to be there," she repeated gently, "and I'm… disappointed when you're not."

Definitely not breathing now. He was afraid to move, to break the spell.

"I'd like to propose an experiment, Carlton. You'll think it's crazy, but hear me out?" Now she looked full at him, pinning his frozen self in place with her dark blue eyes.

He swallowed. "I always hear you out no matter how crazy you are."

She grinned, and he relaxed infinitesimally.

Her gaze returned to her coffee, and the words came out in a rush. "I have a spare bedroom. Would you move in with me?"

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

The idea had come to her a week ago, when she curled up on her sofa after the completion of the murder investigation, after Carlton held her for the longest sweetest time and essentially restored her to working order within the warm strength of his arms.

Her apartment was bright and pleasant and comforting. She didn't mind living alone and she wasn't afraid of noises or creaks, and after the last of her beloved kitties died, she decided to go without for a while because it didn't seem fair to leave them alone all day when she worked such long hours.

But now when she heard little noises, she never thought of the cats. She thought of Carlton.

The first few times it happened she laughed it off—too much time together. Habit indeed.

He'd only been here a few times, so it wasn't as if he had imprinted himself on her home-memories or anything.

Yet… that noise in the hall was Carlton approaching. The little sound from the kitchen was him closing a drawer, about to come to her with a mug or a cookie from the tin.

And then somehow, after the first few times of laughing it off, she began to wish he really would appear. She began to feel restless when he didn't. She began to feel as if she only truly came alive and felt whole when she was with him at work, even if she couldn't see him or hear him: he was _close by_. That was what mattered.

She didn't understand it except in the obvious way: they were together so much every day that it was only natural for their connection, their _bond_ , to spill over into her not-work life.

Was it such a bad thing, to want to be with her partner? To feel better when he was near? To want that feeling to last the whole day and not just the work hours?

Juliet studied him now. He was frozen in his chair, his huge sea-blue eyes fixed on her, but to her relief, he didn't seem to be repulsed by the idea, or to want to draw his weapon and back away.

"Your lease is almost up," she said slowly. "The experiment would be that you move in for a few months and we see how it goes. We'd save money on rent, utilities, cable, even gas if we share a ride to the station now and then. Share the housework, but do our own laundry."

Still he stared at her. She could see… things… happening in the blue depths. Not bad things. _Thinky_ things.

"The spare room's pretty big. Nice closet. I have a storage compartment in the basement and there's plenty of room for anything you want to put there. We'd have to share the full bathroom but there's a half-bath in the hall so that'll help."

Carlton relaxed slowly, but still seemed incapable of speech.

Juliet pressed on, carefully, "If it doesn't work—if we can't share a living space, because naturally some people just aren't meant to be roommates—then it doesn't work. No pressure, because it's just… an experiment. We'll figure it out fast and you'll still have plenty of time to look for something else."

Finally he found his voice, although to her ears it sounded a bit constricted. "What about your personal life?"

She smiled. "What about yours? _I_ don't have a personal life."

One of his dark brows quirked. "I think you know damned well I have neither a personal life nor any immediate prospects of one."

"Then you'll think about it?"

He looked away briefly.

 _You have such gorgeous eyes_ , she thought almost desperately, and it had nothing to do with _anything_ but there it was in her head anyway.

Carlton gestured to the door, and she knew he meant what lay beyond it. "What about… them?"

 _What talk would there be…? What would the Chief say_ …?

Honestly? She didn't care. "I think, for the duration of the experiment, that we could just be discreet. There's no rule against roommates, is there?"

He nodded.

It hit her finally how much he was _not_ reacting in horror or derision.

As if… as if he felt it was right too.

 _Don't assume. Despite those wonderfully expressive eyes, he also has a damned good poker face._

"Do you think I've lost my mind? Please be honest."

Carlton's gaze was searching, but she sensed he might be searching himself as well.

She had no idea what he would say. His _nature_ suggested he'd be skittish and run from the idea.

But… but maybe not. He wasn't the same man she'd partnered with years ago, just as she wasn't the same young woman.

"No," he said finally. "It makes a lot of sense. We know each other's idiosyncrasies pretty well as it is. Like you said, if it's not going to work, we'll figure it out fast."

She couldn't help it: she got up and went over to hug him, kissing his cheek before he saw it coming.

And that kiss, she reflected later, sort of sealed the deal.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

The move-in went smoothly.

Juliet emptied out the spare room and cleared space for him in the main bathroom, the kitchen cupboards and fridge and any place else she thought he might need.

He'd gotten rid of a lot of years of crap, as he described it, before his last move, so he was able to fit just about everything either in the apartment or the basement storage area.

They worked efficiently, over the next few weekends; they didn't talk about it much and told no one at work. He somehow bought time with the business office regarding an address change by claiming he was having his mail redirected to Juliet's place temporarily while he worked out a dispute with his landlord, and besides, with direct deposit of his paycheck and the fact that he spent most of his waking hours at the station anyway, it wasn't as if they couldn't _find_ him.

Juliet marveled about the whole thing: that she'd suggested this _out loud_ , that he'd _agreed_ , that it was _happening_.

It was inevitable, she knew—there'd be a skirmish. A battle of wills. A dispute between two very independent individuals. They had those skirmishes at work regularly, after all. Having them at home ( _at home_! she whispered) was to be expected.

There was some initial awkwardness, mostly at night and first thing in the morning, about seeing each other relatively… undone, about working out bathroom schedules. She found him to be as quiet a person at home ( _at_ _home_! she whispered) as he usually was at work (and without any need at _home_ to roar at anyone), and relatively considerate for… well, for a man.

For the first few weeks he stayed in his room more often than not, but she was still content knowing he was there.

Eventually he emerged more often and together they'd watch TV shows, or the late evening news. Sometimes a movie.

He cooked—she was delighted—mostly on the weekends, but sometimes on weeknights if they could get away early enough, and they started to share their morning run.

They went to the farmers' market together and sometimes out to Sunday afternoon movies (if they could agree on what to see).

She picked up his dry-cleaning sometimes. Sometimes he picked up hers.

Work blended into home and back into work and after two months she realized the inevitable skirmish hadn't come. No battle of wills. No dispute which was about being _roommates_ ; all their disputes had to do with what they talked about or watched or read.

And… she felt right.

Every time a little noise suggested Carlton was close by, coming down the hall or out of the kitchen or up the steps and home… he _was_. He was _home_.

Sometimes, she felt downright glow-y about it.

Neither of them was dating. She didn't miss it. In fact, she unhesitatingly turned down a few offers along the way, and she knew without discussing it with herself _for even_ _one second_ that if Carlton went on a date, it would hurt in a way she didn't think she'd be able to bear.

She tried (well, a little, sometimes, for show) not to dwell on thoughts of him in the shower, or dressing behind that closed bedroom door, or even simply lying in his bed at night. She tried to repress (well, a little, sometimes, for show) her awareness of him as an attractive man to whom she now felt inexorably connected.

But mostly, she just felt glow-y, because Carlton was _home_.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

He'd been living with her for four months.

She hadn't said a word about 'The Experiment,' but Carlton was pretty sure she considered it successful.

He himself considered it the single most stupidly successful endeavor he'd ever engaged in.

Living with Juliet, working with Juliet, running and talking and cleaning and shopping and being with Juliet, was easy and magical and… right.

The only hard part was lying awake sometimes, knowing she was just down the hall in her own bed, soft and warm, because he wished he could be there with her. He thought often that it wasn't even about _physically_ wanting her: he just… _wanted_ her. He wanted to be wrapped around her. He wanted to be the one _she_ wanted.

The day she casually mentioned she had a date—and that day _would come_ , he knew it—would be the day his heart squeezed in on itself and disappeared completely.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

They had another rough case. Abusive parents, defenseless children. This time it was Carlton who had the most trouble getting past it, and she suspected it was because of his own childhood and the father he still wouldn't talk about in any kind of detail.

Juliet lay in her bed, aware he was pacing the hall, the living room floor. Pacing. Walking it off.

It was past two a.m. and he'd been restless for far too long, and she got out of bed and opened her door quietly.

Carlton was in the living room, staring at the floor, silhouetted by the light from the picture window. A lean, graceful and yet tormented figure, he was radiating turmoil she felt compelled to ease.

"Carlton," she whispered as she approached, and he turned.

"I woke you." Even those simple words held so much self-recrimination.

She didn't _ask_ if he needed a hug; she simply stepped up close and encircled his waist and pressed herself to him.

Oh, it felt so right to hold him. She had no idea if it was a comfort to Carlton but it was heaven for her: he was _so_ warm and he held on _so_ tight, and the feel of his heartbeat under her cheek and his breath in her hair was just so… _settling_.

After a long time, and not long enough, he set her back from him a little. She could see by the light through the window that he was smiling, a curious, calm sort of smile she knew was just for her.

"No one hugs me like _you_ do," he said, echoing her words from before this experiment began, and she was charmed and touched that he remembered.

He took her hand and led her back into the hall and to her bedroom door, urging her inside, promising he was all right.

She listened for the snick of his own door, and trusted he would sleep at last.

She just wished she could lie with him in his bed, safe together until the dawn.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

Carlton unlocked the door and let her enter first, locking up securely behind them before sprawling on the sofa in an ungainly heap. "Pardon my selfishness," he said, eyes closed already as he stretched out, "but I feel the need to hog this _entire_ sofa."

Juliet's laughter was soft. "Not all of it, partner."

Suddenly he felt his feet being lifted, and when he opened his eyes, Juliet was seated at the opposite end and his feet were in her lap. Hers were propped on the coffee table, and she was slipping his shoes off.

 _Wow._

"You had a rough day," she commented, pulling off his socks as well.

 _Wow._

He'd chased a punk for what seemed like eternity. Juliet had kept up as best she could in the Crown Vic but the perp's escape path demanded a pursuit of the two-legged variety. Running, Carlton could do very well, and pretty damned fast if he did say so himself; but jumping and dodging—and yelling—at the same time had taken a bit more energy than he was used to.

By the time he caught the guy, he was royally pissed off and indecently out of breath, but it was worth it to see the shock on the kid's face.

At the moment, however, he was forgetting all that, because Juliet O'Hara was _massaging his feet_.

 _Wow to the nth degree._

He didn't stop her.

But he did ask, with his eyes closed again, "Don't you ever want to get away from me?"

More soft laughter. "You mean for longer than the five minutes I sometimes need to calm down enough to _not_ wallop you upside the head for being a cranky ass?"

Carlton opened one eye; she was smirking. "You only need five minutes?"

"I'm a pro," she reminded him. "The answer's no. I don't want to get away from you. What about you? I'm perky. I know how you feel about perky."

He opened the other eye. "There are two people on the earth whose perkiness I can tolerate, and for the record, you are so far above McNab on that scale as to be in a class by yourself."

"That is a _huge_ compliment, Carlton."

"I'm a pro," he drawled, and she laughed.

But how could he be so relaxed with her hands on his bare feet? How did she make everything seem so damned easy?

She massaged lightly, humming a little, and it was gently erotic and yet calming at the same time.

"You don't see your friends very often," he commented, rather than let his mind go where it wanted to go. "You don't… you haven't been on a date."

She shrugged. "Neither have you."

"I'm not as marketable."

Juliet eyed him. "Whatever that means. You've had plenty of dates in the past."

"Define plenty," he scoffed.

She only smiled. "Too many for my tastes."

His heart jerked in his chest. Not relaxed anymore, nope.

"So how do you rate our experiment?" she asked. "It's been six months."

The woman's bare hands were on his bare feet and now… _now_ she was sliding them up his calves a little, massaging there too.

Carlton gathered himself despite this sensory onslaught. "I think that unless you're planning to cut me loose, it's probably time for me to file that change of address with the business office."

Juliet gave him a brilliant smile. Took his freaking breath away. "I'm not planning to cut you loose, Carlton."

He wanted to say "good" but was temporarily unable to speak.

"So why _haven't_ you been out there dating?" she asked, far too casually.

Oh….

Carlton knew her. He _knew_ … and he had to say it.

And he had to say it _now_.

"Because…" He stopped, drew in a breath, and started over. "Because despite what happened during my separation, Juliet, I'm a one-woman man."

Her hands stilled on his skin.

Slowly she turned once more to look at him, those beautiful dark blue eyes full of emotion he desperately wanted to believe was the same one he felt.

Had _been_ feeling for much, much too long.

"Why haven't _you_ been out there dating?" he asked, and it was freakishly hard to get those words out.

"Because I already have someone," she whispered.

They stared at each other in wonder—at least he felt wonder, and dear God she looked like she felt it too.

"I'd like to suggest," she said very softly, "a modification to our experiment."

His mouth was dry. "Such as?"

"I'd like you to…" and she seemed fainter now, but not unsure, "to move out of the spare room and into mine."

Carlton couldn't process anything other than the luminous look in her eyes.

"With me," she clarified in a whisper.

Everything shifted into perfect place within his head and heart and soul.

"Yes," he whispered back.

Juliet smiled. "Possibly forever."

"Yes." He sat up, swinging his legs away, and she moved over and into his arms, and he kissed her warm lovely mouth and fell into her heart and soul.

So right, and so… _home_.

Bed shared that night, and every night thereafter.

Change of address filed.

Chief Vick informed (and seemed resigned to what she muttered had been an inevitable development).

The spare room grew dusty.

Except for when her mom and step-dad flew in for the wedding. They kinda had to clean it then.

 **. . . . .**

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 **. . .**

 **E N D**


End file.
